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A MIDNIGHT HYMN.
The authorship of the following beautiful hymn
of trusts is unknown. It was found treasured up
in an humble cottage in England :
In the mid silence of the voiceless night,
When, chased by airy dreams, the slumbers flee,
Whom iu the darkness doth my spirit seek,
O God! but Thee ?
And if there be a weight upon my breast—
Some vague impression of the foregone—
Scarce knowing what it is, I fly to thee
And lay it down.
Or if it be the heaviness that comes
In token of anticipated ill,
My bosom takes no need of what it is,
Since 'tis Thy will.
For 0! in spite of past and present care,
Or anything beside, how joyfully
Passes that almost solitary hour,
My God, with Thee!
More tranquil than the stillness of the night,
More peaceful than the silence of that hour,
More blest than anything, my bosom lies
Beneath Thy power.
For what is there on earth that I desire,
Of all that it can give or take from me ?
Of whom in heaven does my soul seek,
O God! but Thee?
SeUtUfl itab.
MY CROSS,
WE sat alone, grandmother and I. She
was my father's mother, and had left a
comfortable home of her own to come to us
when my mother died. I was only ten years
old then, and during the eight years since
she had hardly let me find out what it was
to be motherless. Father had never mar
ried again—partly, I think, because he had
loved my mother with all his heart, and
had no room left in it for any new comer ;
and partly, doubtless, because grandmoth
er had made home so entirely comfortable
and homelike that he had never experienc
ed those thousand little domestic discom
forts which sting so many widowers into
matrimony.
The room we sat in this spring afternoon
was the very heart of home, and looked so.
A large, low room, with oak wainscoting
and old-fashioned windows. There was a
carpet on the floor of sombre but warm col
ors ; on the walls, at one side, oaken book
shelves, well-filled ; some plants on a stand
at a south window ; brackets here and
there, with little vases and ornaments,some
of which had been my mother's ; low easy
chairs ; and on the hearth a bright open
fire. Grandmother sat at one side of the
round table between us, sewing steadily
and placidly. The long seam up the mid
dle of a sheet her work was, I remember,
and it made me almost angry to see how
steadily she plodded along it, how content
ed she was to fill up each day with its own
commonplace tasks. I grew nervous. My
embroidery cotton knotted, then broke,
then the eye came out of my needle. I took
a new one, and pricked my finger with it.
I threw iny work down, at last, with some
thing like temper.
"Grandmother," I exclaimed, "what a
disappointment life is ! But then we are
not meant, I suppose, to find our happiness
here !" and when I had said that I seemed
to myself to have given a religions color
ing to my emotions, and felt a little more
self-complacent.
The dear old lady smiled Blightly—l
caught a twinkle of humor in her eyes,
though she kept it out of her voice—as she
answered gravely :
"It is a lesson we all learn, as we get
on in life, Helen ; but not every one has
the wisdum to discover it at eighteen."
" Every one would, I think," I said hotly,
"if every thing 011 which they set their
hearts had disappointed them. Life looks
to me as barren as the Great Desert."
Grandmother laid down her work for a
moment, and gave me a searching, inquisi
torial glance.
"Have you and Joe been quarreling ?"
she asked.
Joe Scarborough was my lover. I had
been engaged to him six months. I did
love him. I teas proud of him. He was a
great, strong, manly, fellow ; a gentleman
all through, though he was a farmer's eon,
and understood rotation of crops better
than changes of fashion.
" No," I said, " Joe and I have not quar
relled. Joe won't quarrel, but he is doing
me great injustice."
Joe was grandmother's prime favorite.
She took up the cudgels at once in his de
tense.
" That is not like him, Helen ; and now,
of all times, I should think he was too sad
for injustice."
She said " now, of all times," because
last week his father had died very sudden
ly, and she knew that Joe had loved him
more than most sons love their fathers. He
had such a great, warm heart that all his
feelings lay deep—all his affections were
stronger than most men's.
I answered her with a question :
" Grandmother, if you had accepted one
kind of life, would you feel bound by such
a pledge to accept another entirely differ
ent ? If a man promised you to do one
thing, and then coolly told you that he had
made up his mind to do another, would
you not think it injustice, or perhaps im
position ?"
" I think," she said, gravely, " that cir
cumstances alter cases, and I can't pro
nounce on this case until I understand it."
" When Joe asked me to marry him he
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVII.
told me he fully realized that neither my
tastes nor my habits would fit me for being
a farmer's wife ; and that he should never
have thought of asking me to be one. Do
you think I'm any more fitted now ?"
" I can't say that you are," and the smile
which emphasized my grandmother's re
mark said more than the words did. I un
derstood by it that she thought I had not
been improving—growing fitter for any
life-work worth doing. It sharpened my
temper yet more.
" Well," I said, " your paragon—"
"You mean, I presume, your lover," she
interpolated.
1 took no notice, except to change the
phraseology of my sentence.
"Joe promised to go to town next fall,
and get into business. He said that he was
going to be a merchant. For my part, I
was willing to wait until he could get a
salary large enough just to live on, and
then I would have shared his lot cheerful
ly, and helped him all I could, and done
without luxuries until the time for them
came. That would have suited me. I should
have been in the midst of stir and bustle—
the rush and movement of life. I could
have helped him to rise—l know I could."
" And what is it now ?"
"He came last night to tell me that he
had changed all his plans. He means to
give up going away, and settle down there
at home, to take care of his mother and
sister. He says, as he shall never be any
differently situated, there is no use in wait
ing, and he wants me to marry him and
come home there."
" What did you tell him ?"
"That I would take till to-night to think
of it. I had promised to share a different
life altogether ; I wasn't fit for this one,
and he knew it."
" Yes," grandmother said quietly, "he
must have known it. But I suppose he was
willing to put up with all your imperfec
tions, and make the best of them, for the
sake of the love he bore you. You know
he might get a wife a great deal more effi
cient and helpful than you would be."
" Let him, then !"
I said the words defiantly, but I strang
led something which was almost a sob at
the thought of Joe—my Joe—ever caring
for, being helped by some other woman.
Then I took up my embroidery again,and
grandmother stitched away at her sheet,
and both of us were silent. I was think
ing how I loved Joe, and how I hated farm
work ; how fussy old Mrs. Scarborough
was, and how stiff and poky Joe's sister
Angeline. I don't know what grandmoth
er was thinking; but, after a while, she
said, gently :
"We all have some kind of burden to
bear, Helen. We can not please ourselves
all through life, and then hear the Lord's
'Well done'at the last. He disciplines us
with trials, every one—sends each child
some cross to carry —why can you not take
this for yours ?"
" I think old Mrs. Scarborough and An
geline would be too heavy for my should
ers," I answered, tartly. "I don't like
them."
" Joe does," uttered grandmother with
mild suggestion.
I took refuge in pertness, and said, flip
pantly :
" Then Joe may enjoy all the charms of
their society without interruption from me."
Grandmother sighed, as she fastened her
thread at the end of the long seam, and
went out into the kitchen to see about sup
per. I got up and looked iu the glass. I
was pretty, and Joe had been right when
he said I was unfit for a farmer's wife. 1
had done nothing but please myself, so far
iu life. My father was the doctor of the
little country town, and there had never
been anything to do at home which graud
mother and her one good strong maid of all
work were not equal to. My idle life had
made me luxurious and indolent. It seem
ed to me that no love on earth could be
strong enough to reconcile me to butter
milk and dishwater. I remembered the far
mers' wives here in Hillsbury—meek, fad
ed, washed-out women—who never read,
never rode, never sang—who seemed to
care only to drag through the slow, un
changing round of each day, aud get to bed
early at night. If they bad ever loved their
husbands, their lives now gave no time for
romance or sentiment. Lives ! It was not
living at all. Of course, if I married Joe I
should sink into just such a woman. I look
ed at my face—bright, young, handsome,
as I could not help knowing it was—at my
hands, where no rude service had left its
imprint. No, 1 would not marry Joe—mine
should not be a marriage in haste for
which all my after-life should be one long
repentance. This decided, I went up stairs
aud put on a dress he liked—tied my hair
with the "bonny blue ribbons" he always
praised. I don't know that I was capable
of the conscious cruelty of intending to be
as lovely as ible, in order to make him
feel his loss the more. What I said to my
self was that, at any rate, his last recollec
tions of me should be at my beßt—l would
have a picture photographed ou his mind
which the useful wife to come should find
it hard to rival.
I went down to supper with a good ap
petite for warm griddle-cakes and fresh
maple sirup. I did not begin yet to under
stand myself or know what I was doing. I
was glad that business took my father
away after tea, aud that grandmother was
considerate enough to find something to do
in the kitchen. I made the fire bright in
the sitting-room, lit a lamp, aud put a little
glass, filled with crocuses which I had
found iu a sheltered corner of thh garden,
on the round table. Then I stood at the
window and watched the early moon rise
as I waited for Joe.
He came soon, walking with such firm
step, wearing such an expectant look, smil
ing so brighly, when he saw me at the win
dow, that his very manner piqued me and
strengthened my resolution. Was he, then
so sure ? Did he think he had only to map
out a new life for me altogether different
from my hopes and expectations, aud my
love for him was certain to make me I ail in
with it at once ? I forgot how many times
I had told him that his love was more to
me than any thing else in the world--how
much right I had given him to trust in me.
I opened the door for him, and let him kiss
me as usual. I could not help it--this one,
last time.
" Helen," he said, as we came in together
—" I have wanted you so, all day. I have
missed him wherever I turned, and the
thought of you was my sole comfort. Now
TOW AND A, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., OCTOBER 11,1866.
that I have begun to think of being mar
ried at once, I wonder that I could have
borne the idea of waiting, as we had plan
ned before."
I wished that his voice were less tender
—that his eyes were not so full of loving
trust. I must make haste and tell him my
decision,before I grew too weak—too much
a woman.
"Joe," I said, and I tried so hard to be
firm that it gave my voice a cold,resolute,de
fiant ring—" T have thought it all over,and
if you must stay at home 1 can not marry
you. It would make me miserable, and I
know you do not want, to do that. You
said, in the first place, that you knew I
was utterly unfitted to be a farmer's wife,
and that you would never have asked me
to marry you if you had not planned out a
different career for yourself."
" I know, Helen—but afterward I grew
surer of your heart, and understood better
what love meant. And now I have 110
choice. I must stay at home and tak.i care
of things for mother and Augeline, or the
farm would never give them the comforts
of life. It would be a good while before I
could make enough in any new business to
help them. I must do just this thing and
no other—so I thought you too would be
ready to make the best of it."
How his great, sad, loving eyes 'ooked
at me, saying more than his words said,
and how I hardened my heart against
them !
"Joe," I said, "I do not think you un
derstand me 1 have thought it all over,
and I can see it but in one light. Look at
the women round us here in Hillsbury. See
what lives they live, and what their lives
make of them 1 /can't live so. It would
make me hate myself, and you. I should
waut to die. Ido love you, Jce. Dou't use
the power my love gives you to urge me
into a life where I could never be useful or
happy, or make you so."
How the tru>t, and hope, and light faded
out of his eyes as they looked at me. How
blank and fixed, almost a dead face, his
face grew ! He seemed for a moment like
one whom a heavy blow had stunned :
then a flash of his old, manly pride flamed
up in his eyes. He uttered no lamentation
—not even a remonstrance. He only asked,
with a dignity which awed me :
"You have weighed the matter well?
You are sure you have made up your
mind"
And when I said I was sure, he got up
to go.
'• My duty remains the same, Helen. I
can not change that, for it is God's order
ing. I won't stay to pain you. Child, let
me kiss you once more."
He had risen to go, and he took me sud
denly in his arms. 1 would not have freed
myself if I could. I felt his heart beating
in great, panting throbs against my side.
For a moment his lips pressed mine as if
they would breathe out the whole love of
his life, and then he let me go, and went
out into the wind}', desolate April night. I
stood at the window and watched him go
ing home—with such a different ruieu from
that which had angered uie before—going
home to his grief and his loss, his sister
bereaved like himself, his mother who was
a widow.
That night I slept little. I did not real
ize just what I had done—of how much of
my life and soul I had bereft myself ; but
one thing I felt intensely—l could not stay
in Hillsbury, where I should see Joe con
stantly. By-aud-by when I was stronger 1
would come back, but for the present I
must take refuge somewhere. It was Sat
urday night, so I could do nothing until
Monday, but I made all my plans. My fa
ther was well known in the neighboring
towns, and I thought I could secure a situ
ation to teach school in some of them with
out difficulty. I would get away by this
means for the summer. By the time school
was out we should have overlived the
worst of it, both Joe and I. Then, perhaps,
1 would come home.
I mentioned to matter at breakfast next
morning. My father uttered an exclama
tion of surprise, and I could see at once
that he was prepared to oppose my plan.
But grandmother interposed mildly be
tween me and refusal.
" I am glad you have thought of it, Hel
en, she said, approvingly. "It is excellent
discipline for any girl, and I think it's just
what you need. James, you could find an
opeuiug for her easily enough, couldn't you,
you know so many people ?"
" Why, yes," my father answered reflect
ingly, "if I thought it best for her to go.
There is Colonel Cushing of Montclair,
who wrote me last week to see if I knew
of a teacher. But it's such a strange freak
for Helen."
" There's wisdom in freaks, sometimes,"
grandmother said, mildly. The conversa
tion dropped there, but with her on my side
I felt pretty sure that my point was gain
ed.
I went to church that day. I dreaded it,
but nothing but sickuess ever excused
Hillsbury people from church-going. Joe
was there, sitting in his black clothes, be
side his mother and Augeline in their deep
mourning. Mrs. Scarborough looked all
worn-out with sorrow--her face chalk
white in her close black bonnet. I pitied
her, but I did not like her. Angeline, it
seemed to me, was stiffer than ever. I felt,
when I came near them in goiug out out of
church, as if a wind from the frozen pole
had crossed my track. Joe spoke to me
with grave courtesy —he would not have
done more than that at such a time if the
words of the night before had been left un
said ; but oh, how I missed the smile,heart
warm and involuntary, the quick gleam
from the loving eyes which had welcomed
me always, ever since I had promised to
be Joe's wife ! That Sunday was a long,
sad day ; I was glad when it was over.
In two weeks more I was settled at
Montclair, teaching shool. Colonel Cushing
was my head committee-men—a gentle
manly, polished widower, with two little
girls who were the most interesting of my
scholars. I found teaching school a great
deal easier and pleasanter than I had im
agined—partly, perhaps because it was
summer, and the older pupils, who might
have troubled me somewhat in winter,
were otherwise occupied—but chiefly, I am
sure, through Colonel Cushing's efficient
protection, which interposed from the very
first between me and all annoyances an
tegis of defense.
He lived in the finest place in Montclair,
and Montclair was a far more pretentious
village than Hillsbury. His great mansion,
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANT QUARTER.
surrounded by elegant grounds, and fur
nished with every thing that taste could
suggest or luxury demand, was like a rev
elation to me. I thought I kney then what
I had been wanting —what suited me. I
felt at home in these elegant rooms. This,
indeed, was something better than the ca
reer of a merchant's clerk aud his wife,
even in the city. 1 felt a vague thrill of
ambition. I thought that il might not have
been a bad thing for nie, at least, that Joe
had been prevented from carrying out his
first plans—that I was free.
I could see from the first that Colonel
Cushing liked me, though he had too much
tact and taste to startle me by any prema
ture declarations of it. He contented him
self with making life pleasant for me—let
ting me kee how pleasant he had it in his
power to make it. When the time came
—for I " boarded round"—for me to be a
member of his household, which a widowed
sister superintended, he spared no pains to
make the days white letter ones in my cal
endar. At other times he would come for
the little girls in his elegant barouche, and
take me with them for a drive among the
the splendid hill scenery, or along the
pleasant, low-lying river. Or he would
send me strawberries, red glowing with
the life of summer—or cherries, bedded iu
cool,green leaves—or liower3 such as grew
in no other garden in Montclair. Remem
ber that I was only eighteen, that I knew
myself to be handsome, and discovered my
self to be ambitious.
I can claim credit for one thing—l never
forgot my own dignity, or made one 1111-
maidenly effort to attract Colonel Cushing.
Indeed there was no need. His attentions
grew coastautly more and more marked. I
was flattered by them, certainly. It gave
me a new idea of my own power to have
such a man so entirely devoted to ine. I
thought of Mother Scarborough aud Hills
bury butter with a smile of superiority.
Clearly my destiny did not lie there. I fan
cied myself, in my Utile day dreams of girl
ish vanity, walking through those splen
did rooms as mistress—wearing jewels,and
laces, and suit, rich silks—my girlish pret
tiness set off by such adornments until I
could hardly recognize Hillsbury Helen in'
the bright vision. I think these dreams
came to me with more charm and potency
every day. They were beginning to fill my
imagination full, and 1 lost sight in thein
of everything lying beyond ; forgot that to
such a brilliant lot could come, as well as
lowlier ones, days of pain aud weariness,
sore troubles and heartaches, by and-by
death itself; that here, as well as else
where, I should need the support and j
strength of tenderest mutual love. For I
did not love Colonel Cashing ; he could
never be to me what Joe had been. In my
brightest visions he figured as an accesso
ry—a courtly, gracious gentleman, whose
homage did me honor, to bear whose name
would make me a pow.-r in the world ; but
I did not love him. And as yet he had nev
er asked for my love, though I felt with a j
woman's intuition that the hour was draw-1
ing nigh.
I sat one afternoon, late in July, on a
low ottoman iu his drawing room, looking
out toward the west, where a crimson sun
set flushed the skv, and singing fitfully
snatches of old ballads which the Colonel
loved to hear. We were all alone, he and
I—alone with the gathering twilight, the
soft summer wind, which came through the
wide-opened window, the stars that began
to shine solemnly in the far heavens. I
saw that, despite the Colonel's love for bal
lads, he was getting impatient. His sis
ter had gone up stairs with the children.
She would be through with prayers and (
good-nights soon. We should not be long J
alone, and I knew —how do women know 1
such things ?—that he wanted to make the
most of his opportunity. Still I sang on.
It was perversity partly—partlj* a vagne,
vexing dread of the future which lay so
near. If he asked me to be Lis wife I knew
that I should say yes, but some dumb,blind
instinct witbin me clung still to freedom.
While I sang a servant came in with
letters and papers—the evening mail. Colo
nel Cushing just glanced at them, and put
ting the rest in his pocket, handed one to
me.
" A letter, Miss Helen, but don't read it
now—let me talk to you instead."
"In a moment. It is grandmother's
handwriting. If you don't let me look and
see whether any thing is the matter 1 shall
not be a good listener."
He was too true a geutlemau to insist on
having his own way, nd I held my letter
close to the window. It was the first one
grandmother ban written me that summer
quaint, old-fashioned, tender—how like
herself! 1 glanced over it by the linger
ing sunset light until I carne to these
words :
" You will want, I think, to bear about
Joe. His horses took fright yesterday, as
he was mowing. He was thrown from his
mowing-machine, and severely hurt. Your
father doubtß if he will ever r cover."
I strained my dim eyes over the paper to
see if I had made any mistake. No, it was
all plain—too plain. Joe, my Joe, might
be dying. We have heard stories, all of
us,about the sudden intuitions of drowning
meu,in which they live over and understand
a lifetime in a few seconds. I think it was
something like that which came to me—li
ker, perhaps, to the awakening thrill with
which, after death, our souis will rise to
the new life. I think we shall know then,
in one electric flash, just how much and
how little this world has been worth. For
the first time in my life I understood my
own soul —its needs, wants, longings—but
I was conscious of only two ideas. One,
that 1 was intensely thankful that 1 had not
bound myself to Colonel Cushing ; the oth
er,that I must go to Joe. Only one course
of action occurred to me, and that was to
tell the Colonel the entire truth. I did not
trust in vaiu to his generosity. When I
had told him all,he said to me with a strange,
grave tenderness :
"Helen, did you know that I loved you ?
; You had grown to be the hope and the ob
ject of my life. I think if it had not been
for this other love you would have cared
for me. It is like you—like just what I
thought you —to tell me the truth as soon
as you knew it yourself."
"But I must go to him, Colonel. Can't
some one take my place ?"
" I would, if that were necessary, rather
than keep you here against your will," he
answered, soothingly. "But there will be
no trouble. I will arrange about dismis
sing the school for a few days, and iu the
mean time procure some one to take it, for
1 do not thiuk you will wish to come back."
"Oh,how good you are--how generous !"
"1 would be good to you, Helen. If you
could have loved me, I would have been
very tender of you. But I will never talk
about that any more. I will be your kind,
trusty friend, and manage every thing for
you just as your father might."
If my heart had not been to full of Joe his
sad gentleness must have won it. As it iB,
he did win my gratitude, and a friendship
that will last our lives through,
The next afternoon I reached home. I
went into the room where grandmother and
I had talked, that spring day,and found her
there, sitting by the round table, sewing
placidly as of old.
"Grandmother," I said, "I have come. I
am going to Joe."
"I thought you would," she answered, in
her kind, low tones. "I believe I under
stood you last spring better tban you un
derstood yourself."
My heart misgave me a little as I knock
ed at the Widow Scarborough's door. An
geline opened it, with her funeral looks,
dressed in her unmitigated mourning. She
held the door in her hand, and did not ask
me to walk in.
"I have come," I said meekly, "to see
Joe. 1 heard of his accident.and came home
from Montclair to be with him."
"He has good care," she answered, un
graciously, "and we don't let company see
him ; but you may walk in, and I'll speak
to mother."
She let me go into the best room—an
apartment cold and uninviting as her own
manner I heard a confused sound of whis
pering voices outside, and then M rs. Scar
borough came in where I sat. I read de
nial on her face—resolution stiffened her
lips. She looked at me with almost an ex
pression of dislike. Instinct suggested the
only way to make my peace with her. I
was capable of any sacrifice of pride if
j only 1 could get to Joe. So I told her, hum
bly enough,how mistaken I had been when
I parted from him—how dearly I had loved
hiui iu spite of all—and begged her not to
drive me away from him.
Perhaps the thought of what Joe himself
would say, if he ever recovered, influenced
her somewhat. At any rate she gave an
ungracious assent at last.
"Your father's in there, now," she said.
'Wou can go in, if you are sure you can be
still. Remember it won't do to have any
cryin' or takiu' on in there."
So I took oil' my bonnet and went in. Fa
ther just nodded to me. He was counting
Joe's pulse-beats, and he wore an anxious,
doubtful look.
When he lelt I followed him into the en
try.
"Father," I said,"l went away because I
cid not want to marry a farmer, and I've
some back because I love Joe. Can you
dave biru for me ?"
"God only kuows. child. He was hurt
terribly ; but there's a chance—-just a
chance."
Just a chance ! Those words were my
strung stafi' during the dreadful days that
followed. If human love and care could
save him he would be saved.
He did not know me ; his head had been
hurt iu bis fall, and he was delirious. This
made it so much harder for me. I could
not strengthen myself with the feeling that
I was a comfort to him. Then, too, in his
frenzy he would call sometimes upon my
name ; revealed in some wild sentence, as
he never would have revealed it otherwise,
how he had suffered at our parting. And
all this made Mrs. Scarborough and Ange
line so much the more bitter against me. I
think a dozen times during the first week
they would have sent me out of the house,
but for the consideration that Joe might
recover aud blame them for such a resent
iug of his wrougs.
Alter a while it seemed to me that my
patience began to softem then. They trea
ted me witii more kindness, and sometimes
left me to watch alone beside Joe. On one
of these rare occasions I sat and looked at
his worn, wasted face until my grief over
came me utterly,and bending my head down
on the side of the bed I burst into a passion
of weeping. At last I felt a feeble touch
upon my hair, and Joe's voice—oh,so weak
and faint, but his own natural voice again,
thank God, said :
"Helen ! Can this be Helen ?"
I forgot all Mrs. Scarborough's cautious
about disturbing him. I just threw my arms
around him, aud sobbed out:
"Oli, Joe, only get well, and forgive me I
I found out that your life, whatever it is,
must he my life,for the world is nothing at
all without you."
A sudden,passionate joy kindled his face.
One cry—"Oh, Helen, my love,uiy love I"
and then his head fell back in a deathlike
swoon.
Somehow I was not frightened. The ex
citement had been too much for him just
now, but I felt iu my heart that it would
not kill him. I believe in joy as Heaven's
own balm of healing. I went quietly to
work without calling any one to restore
him to consciousness ; and when Mr;. Scar
borough came iu, half an hour after ward,he
was lying with his hand in mine,at rest and
in his right mind.
"Mother," he said, with fervent joy and
resolution, "1 am going to get well. I think
Helen has saved my life."
After he was able to walk about he ask
ed me, one day, when I would be ready to
marry him.and I told him I would be ready
whenever he said. You see my pride was
gone uow, and my love reigned triumph
ant.
"When 1 am well again," he said,thought
fully, "I have been thinking that it might
be best for me to make a home for you
where we could be quite by ourselves. I
! ought to have remembered, last spring,that
you might not like the idea of coining to
live with mother and Angeline. Of course
; they could never be to you what they are
j to me."
I considered the matter for a few silent
moments. I knew it was best for Joe to
stay there—that is what he really in his
heart would prefer—should I be selfish
enough to change his plans?
"No," I said, at length, "if you will let
me choose, for the present we will live here.
1 I know them better now than I knew them
j then, aud have none of the same feeling
about it. I think to stay here will best for
you, and therefore best for me."
His smile of gratitude repaid me for any
sacrifice at the root of my decision.
When I told grandmother that he had
#3 per Annum, m Advance.
proposed to have a separate home for us,
she smiled as she answered :
"So you won't have to take up that cross
after all ?"
"Yes, 1 have made up my mind to it I
knew that it would be best for Joe, and so
I insisted upon it. I love him well enough
now to share his fortune just as it is."
So we were married one fall day—one of
those splendid, prismatic days when the air
is full of soft haze which catches hues of
rainbow brightness from the sunbeams—
and I went home with Joe.
I did not invite Colonel Cushing to my
wedding, but he heard of it somehow and
sent me his bridal gift—a set of choice en
gravings simply framed. They hang on
the walls of my sitting-room, a perpetual
joy,and a reminder of one of the truest and
most generous men I ever knew. Sometimes
when we are looking at them together,l say
to Joe :
"I couldn't have helped loving him if I
hadn't already loved you."
But he is never jealous ; nor, in truth,do
I think he has occasion.
I have been married three years, and dai
ly have seen fresh reason to be thankful
that I bear my own cross and no other.—
Mother—l call Mrs Scarborough so now—
has developed delightfully as a grandmoth
er, and Augeline is a model aunt. Between
them both they aid me so much, and care
for me so kindly, that Joe declares I have
yet to acquire the meek, faded unquestion
ing face proper to the wife of a Ilillsbury
farmer.
INFLUENCE OF AFFECTION. —There is a
good deal of canting about involuntary af
fection in the world, and all that; but a
young lady should never let such foolish
notions enter her head. She should allow
the pride of conscious strength of mind to
keep her above every foolish, vain and non
sensical preference towards this precious
fop, and that idle attendant on a lady's
will. She should lay it up in her heart as
an immutable principle, that no love can
last if not based upon a right and calm es
timation of good qualities ; or at least, that
if the object upon which it is lavished be
not one whose heart and whose head are
both right, misery will surely be her por
tion. A sudden preference for a stranger
is a very doubtful kind of preference, and
the lady who allows herself to be betrayed
into such a silly kind of affection, without
knowing a word of the man's character or
his position, is guilty of indiscretion which
not only reflects unfavorably upon her good
sense, but argues badly for the nature and
groundwork of that aflection.
MEDITATION. —Go to the grave of buried
love and meditate. There settle the ac
count with thy conscience for every past
endearment unregarded, of the departed
being who can never—never —never return
to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou
art a child, and hast ever a sorrow
to the soul, or a furrow to the brow, of an
affectionate parent; if thou art a husband,
and hast ever caused the fond bosom that
centered its whole happinrss in thy arms,
to doubt one moment of thy kindness or
truth ; if thou art a friend, and hast ever
wronged In thought, or word, or deed, the
spirit that confided in thee ; if thou art a
lover, and hast ever given one unmerited
pang to that true heart which now lies cold
beneath thy feet—then be sure that every
unkind look, every ungracious word, every
ungentle action, will come thronging back
upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully
at thy soul—then be sure that thou wilt lie
down sorrowing and repentant on the grave
and utter the unheard groan and shed the
unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter,
because unheard and unavailing— lrving.
MANHOOD AND WOMANHOOD. —Who are you,
young man, youDg woman, living in this
country and age, and yet doing nothing to
benefit others ? Who are you—blessed with
body and intellect, and yet an idler in the
busy workshop of life ? Who are you with
immortal soul, and yet that soul so deaf to
the myriad voices all about you that call to
duty and to labor ? Arise ! and be a faith
ful toiler—God calls you—humanity calls
you—and they have both a right to all
your powers. Arise ! Make your whole
life one scene of industry ! Arise and go
forth, and every moment your feet shall
press or your hand touch some pedal or key
in the " organs that shake the universe."
Arise ! there is work for you to do. You
were created to toil and bear a hand where
the hammers of time are ringing as they
fashion the fabric of eternity.
VELVET TONGUES. —When I was a boy, I
and a number of my playmates had ram
bled through the woods and fields, till,quite
forgetful of the fading light, we found our
selves far from home. Indeed we had lost
our way. It did so happen we were near
er home than we thought; but how to get
to it was the question. By the edge of the
field we saw a man coming along and we
ran to ask him to tell us. Whether he was
in trouble or not I do not know, but he
gave us some very surly answer. Just
then tnere came along another man, a near
neighbor, and with a merry smile on his
face. "Jim," said he, " a man's tongue is
1 like a cat's ; it is either a piece of velvet
or a piece of sand-paper, just as he likes to
use it and to make it; and I declare you
always seem to use your tongue for sand
yaper. Try the velvet man, try the velvet
principle."- -Blind Amos.
WE have listened to many effective ar
guments in favor of total abstinence, but
we have never heard one more exhaustive
than that of the honest German who was
asked to speak at a meeting of the friends
of total abstinence. As to the precise lo
cality of this meeting our readers are at
liberty to exercise their guessing faculties.
After some hesitation, he arose and said :
" I shall tell you how it vas ; I put mine
hand on my head, and there vos von big
pain Then I put mine hand on my pody,
and vas anoder. There was very much
pains in all mine pody. Then I put mine
hand in my pocket, and there vas nothing.
Now there vas no more pain in my head.
The pains in my pody was all gone away.
I put mine hand in my pocket, and there
vas twenty tollars. So I shall shtay mit
te temperance." Aside from the moral
prospects of the question, the Dutchman's
'experience' tells the whole story.
FUN, FACTS AND FACETIiE.
AN exchange paper, among other sug
gestions which will enable a person to avoid the
cholera, says .- "Endeavor, if possible, to keep a
clear conscience, and two or three clean shirts. —
Rise with the lark, but avoid larks in the evening.
Be above ground in all your dealings. Love your
neighbors as yourself, but don't have too many of
them in the same house with you."
Dr. NEGRIES, a French surgeon, says the
simple elevation of a person's arm will always stop
bleeding at the nose. He explains the tact physi
ologically, and declares it a positive remedy. An
other recommends pressing hard on the upper lip.
Rapid chewing of any substance is also spoken of
as a remedy.
A GENTLEMEN having occasion to call up
on an author, found him in his study writing. He
remarked the great heat of the apartment, and
said : "It is as hot as an oven." "So it ought
to be," replied the author, "for it's here I make
my bread."
A large per cent. of the mistakes mortals
make, is because they act directly opposite to what
the experience of the elder part of the race say is
best. There is not a sin committed that a person
of experience and years would not, if consulted,
speak against.
THE birds of the air die to sustain thee ;
the beasts of the fields die to nourish thee ; the
Ashes of the sea die to feed thee ; or stomachs are
their common sepulchre ; with how many deaths
are our poor lives patched up ; how full of death
is the life of momentary mam— (Quarks.
"MY dear Murphy," said an Irishman,
to his friend, "why did you betray the secret I
told you?" "Is it betraying you call it? Sure,
when I found I wasn't able to keep it myself, did
n't I do well to tell it to somebody that could ?"
A FRENCH comic paper, apropos of the
needle gun, says a weapon has been invented
which fires twenty balls a minute and has a musi
cal box in the butt, thus doing away with the ne
cessity of regimental bands.
" I'm afraid you'll come to want," said an
old lady to a young gentleman. "I have come to
want already," was the reply: "I want your
daughter."
How often do we sigh for opportunities
of doing good, whilst we neglect the openings of
Providence in little things! Dr. Johnson used to
say, '' He who waits to do a great deal of good at
once will never do any." Good is done by de
grees. However small in proportion the benefit
which follows individual attempts to do good, a great
deal may thus be accomplished by perseverance,
even in the midst of discouragements and disap
pointments.
WHEN a spendthrift crossed the Channel
to avoid his creditors, Selwyn said: "It is a
passover that will not be very much relished by
the Jews."
A PARTIZAN paper gays : "Itis a mistake
that the (opposite) paity plays upon a harp of a
thousand strings. The organ of that party is a
lyre."
" WHAT flower of beauty shall I marry ?"
asked a young spendthrift of his governor ; to
which the governor replied, with a grim smile,
" Mari-gold!"
" THERE, John, that's twice you've come
home and forgotten that lard." "La, mother, it
was so greasy that it slipped my mind."
AN old lady, hearing somebody say the
mails were very irregular, said: "It was just so
in my young days—no trusting any of 'em."
WHEN may a loaf of bread be said to bo
inhabited ? When it has a little Indian in it.
WHY is Buckingham Palace the cheapest
ever ereited? Because it was built for one sover
eign and finished for another.
WHY is furling a ship's canvass like a
mock auction? Because it's a taking in sale (sail).
WHY is a French franc of no value com
pared with the American dollar? Because it is
worthless.
WHAT are the features of a cannon?—
Cannon's mouth, cannon-ize, and cannon-eers.
WHAT is that which is always invisible
and never out of sight? The letter I.
WHAT is the only pain that we make
light of? A window-pane.
WHAT workman uever turns to the left ?
Wheel-wright.
WHAT sort of a throat is tte best for a
singer to reach high notes with ? A soar throat.
WHY are balloons iu the air like vagrants?
Because they have no visible means of support.
WHERE are the " uttermost parts of the
earth?" Where there are the most women.
BAD thoughts quickly ripen into bad ac
tions.
JOSH BILLINGS says he has got a good re
collection, but not a good memory. He recollects
having lost ten dollars the other" night, but don't
remember where he lost it.
TEACH your boys to shut doors and gates
after them. Also, to clean their shoes before en
tering the house, aud to wash and comb their hail
before coming to meals.
WHAT is the latest and sweetest thing in
bonnets ? The ladies' faces, to be sure.
ONE OF GOUGH'S STORIES.— At a political
meeting the speakers and audience were
very much disturbed by a man who con
stantly called for Mr. Henry. Whenever a
a new speaker came on, this man bawled
out " Mr. Henry ! Henry ! Henry ! Henry !
I call for Mr. Henry !"
After several interruptions of this kind
at each speech a young man ascended the
platform and was soon airing his eloquence
in a magnificent style, striking out power
fully in his gestures, when the old cry was
heard for Mr. Heury.
Putting his hand to his mouth like a
speaking trumpet, this man was bawling
out at the top of his voice "Mr. Henry !
Henry ! |Henry ! Henry ! I call for Mr.
Henry to make a speech !"
The chairman now arose and remarked
that it would oblige the audience if the
gentleman would refrain from any further
calling for Mr. Henry as that gentleman
now speaking.
" Is that Mr. Henry ?" said the disturber
of the meeting. "Thunder ! that can't be
Mr. Henry I Why, that's the little cuss that
told me to holler !"
Mr. Gorgh adds, that in telling this sto
ry to a man who could never be made to
see the "point" of a joke, after studying
for some minutes, the man remarked,
" Well, Mr. Gough, what did he tell him to
' holler ' for ?"
MRS. PARTINGTON ON FASHION. —" There is
one thing sure," said Mrs. Partington, " the
females of the preseut regeneration are a
heap more independent tiiau they used to
be. Why, I saw a gal go by to-day that I
know belongs to the historical class of so
ciety, with her dress all tucked up to her
kuee, her hair all buzzled up like as if she
hadn't bad time to comb it for a week,and
one of her grandmother's caps, in an awful
crumpled condition, on her head. Why,
laws, honey, when 1 was a gal, if any of
the fellows came along when 1 had my
clothes tucked up that way, and my head
kivered with an old white rag, I would run
for dear life, and hide out of sight. Well,
well, the gals then were innocent, unconfis
cated creatures ; now they are what the
French call ' blazes.' "
THE USE OF THE ROD.— The following sto
ry is told of a father of the Church : At an
association dinner, a debate arose as to the
use of the rod in bringing up children. The
Doctor took the affirmative, aud the chief
opponent was a young minister, whose rep
utation for veracity was not high. He
maintained that parents often do harm to
their children by unjust punishment, from
not knowing the facts of the case. " Why,"
said he, " the only time my father whipped
me was for telling the truth." "Well," re
torted the Doctor, "it cured you of it,
didn't it?"
NUMBER 20.